for the love we thought we deserved
by lilypads
Summary: he talks about her like she put the goddamn stars in the sky. —theodoredaphne, one-sided dracodaphne


**notes**: gosh, this has taken me a long time. i'm still on a hiatus, but i've finally completed a theodaph one-shot & i'm real proud of that. it's a little rushed towards the end as i was running out of steam — plus i cannot stand the kiss, but damn it all to hell! i love theodore nott. i love daphne greengass. i wish they had been featured more in the books & films.  
(p.s sorry for spelling mistakes etc; and my obsession with putting things in brackets and making it all confusing, OOPS.)  
**disclaimer**: i own nothing but this cliché plot.

for the love we thought we deserved

_promise me you won't forget;  
we were a part of it._

-—the deadly syndrome.

* * *

There are rows of wine glasses lined up on tables, covered in soft and silky table cloths.

The entire hall is decorated lavishly; the colour white is prominent throughout the decor. It's Astoria's favourite colour. This is a terrible choice, though. Daphne glanced around the hall, frowning — Draco's hair is white, and so he'll clash horribly with the white that currently lined the walls and the tables. But Astoria has never quite gotten over her fondness for her fiancés hair and the reminder of her favourite colour.

They were practically made for each other.

Daphne removed her eyes from the explosion of white and took a gulp of air. The worst part was over. She had already managed to sit through her sister's and Draco's ceremony, which had been bland and tedious, just like the both of them.

(and still, the juvenile jealousy seems to seep through her veins; her sister, beautiful, caring and wonderful, she has it all.)

Her father had been planning Daphne's wedding since she was five — she would marry into the dirty, rich and handsome. But all Daphne's efforts to secure the man of her dreams (he's stood ten foot from her, _damn it all to hell_) wasn't enough. It was never enough. Because Astoria was pretty and polite, whereas Daphne was cold and calculating.

Who would marry a woman made from ice?

Daphne stole yet another short look at the happy couple. Astoria was every bit as bright as Daphne was dark. Astoria with her light brown hair (_oh, she was her father's daughter, always, always_) and her warm blue eyes. There wasn't a thing anybody could say about Astoria Greengrass that wasn't with high regard. Her starlit eyes and her radiant little smile.

They were complete opposites; two girls from two different worlds, no matter how thick blood was. Because Daphne was bred to be the first married, the first successor, the bearer of the heir. And yet, she is as helpless and lonely as Astoria was happy and hopeful, and isn't that always the way?

Once again, Daphne frowned. It suited her far better than a smile.

She took one last look around the hall and turned to leave. She had a party to get ready for.

v

By seven thirty, the white-walled hall was brimming with energy.

Daphne could hear them all, even from the depths of her bedroom. Inside here, there was more colour than she cared to admit. Growing up in the Slytherin dungeon had always bothered her — dark greens and blacks; the eerie green glow of the lake and the flickering of the candles. It was far too dreary down there. So she made her room the complete opposite.

Her walls were awash with purples and blues and oranges. Her ceiling painted cream, dotted with stars and constellations her father had made for her, back when she ceased to own a wand. It was a total contradiction to her personality. A complete difference to the ice queen of Slytherin. This was Daphne Greengrass as nobody but her full length mirror and her owl got to see her.

With bookshelves lining the walls, the spines of tomes spelled to look like old, dusty volumes, were really muggle literature and poetry. With her vanity sat up against the window, make up and jewelry spilling across the top — what lay deep within its draws were really mounds of parchment with her own literature scrawled across it.

Daphne turned to face the full length mirror.

What stared back at her was the picture of a beautifully cursed young lady. With hair that fell down her back like a golden waterfall and eyes the colour of sapphires, Daphne was every bit the replica of her mother. Daphne frowned. Then she hesitantly smiled. The difference was almost a little startling — when she smiled (shy and bashful and _oh-so-debonair_) she looked far too much like Astoria.

"Daphne," she said to herself, strong and firm. "You are Daphne."

v

Daphne stood by the far end of the hall, her eyes passing by strangers with vague interest.

Most of the guests she knew, but they hardly claimed much recognition in her brain — there was Blaise, who had turned up with Tracy Davies (_childhood sweethearts, aren't you so lonely, Daphne_); Pansy, who was single and possibly just as miserable and lost as Daphne; Crabbe and Goyle, surprisingly _with _dates, and then there was Theodore.

It had been several years since the war, and Daphne was twenty-one now. It had been several years since she had seen any of these people — she travelled to France the minute the war ended, she lost herself in cigarette smoke and one night stands with men who waxed poetic in the moonlight. But still, the memory of Theodore lingered.

He used to be her salvation; her only refuge and the only boy who didn't leer at her, nor despise her for her family's involvement in dark arts.

Theodore was simple and he was solitude and, most importantly, he was _safe and strong._

But after the war, when Daphne took off without a single goodbye, they lost contact and she drowned herself in fine liquor and sex. It was a mess of emotions frayed with how utterly jealous she was of Astoria. It was misery over being born into this wretched family and it was an existence filled with tears and hate and losing herself.

Seeing him now, tall and dark and impossibly handsome, she felt she may of stopped breathing.

(_you aren't alone — I'm here, always)_

And it's her fault, isn't it? Always had been.

Theodore noticed her a few moments after she spotted him. He stared at her for several seconds, a glass of wine in hand, and a lush black suit on, and then began walking towards her. His pace was slow, deliberate, almost as if he wanted her to suffer. Daphne's heart grew restless with each movement — why did she ever come back to England?

("I'm getting married, Daph. The least you could do is _be there._")

Daphne took a deep breath and stilled herself.

He was before her in moments.

Theodore hadn't changed much — still tall; his dark hair fell across his eyes, messy but still somehow neat. His hazel coloured eyes spoke volumes, words he refused to say, words he was too scared to say. But it was the way he had grown, not just physically, but emotionally, that had Daphne rooted. Behind those eyes, there was world of unspoken truths.

"You're back," he stated.

"I'm back," Daphne confirmed, avoiding his eyes.

Theodore smirked. "When did you get back?"

The idle small talk was making Daphne uneasy. Back in Hogwarts, they used to share secrets and talk for hours — this felt different. _He _was different. Maybe they had both grown up far too quickly. Maybe she was overreacting. "Last week," Daphne replied, keeping her voice down. "I wasn't planning on returning, actually."

Shifting his weight, Theodore nodded. He was drinking red wine. He hated wine. Daphne bit her lip and chanced a glance in Draco's direction. Childhood loves never quite seem to leave, do they?

"I always expected it to be you," Theodore broke the silence, his voice warm.

Daphne looked back at him, finally meeting his eyes. "Pardon?"

He nodded in her sisters and Draco's direction, "I thought you'd marry him," he elaborated, "I know how fond you were of him."

(_And __didn't mother say, "jealousy and spite runs through our veins, darling Daphne"_) "I was _not,_" Daphne snarled hotly.

All he had to do was raise a dark eyebrow to make her flush.

"I—It was a long time ago," Daphne muttered, sending his glass glares, because she couldn't find it within herself to glare at him. "I've grown up. He's grown up. We were just... children then."

"I'm glad you're back," Theodore finally said. Daphne lifted her eyes and stared at him, hard. "I missed you," he added, "London isn't the same without a bit of sunshine."

Daphne spluttered, her face growing hot. He had always been so blunt, had always spouted off stupid things like that — just like those French men she slept with. They would compare her eyes to the sea, her bones to the wind and her skin to the sand. It was horribly satisfying to hear, simply because it reminded Daphne so vividly of Theodore.

It was their first mutual love — Theodore had read one of his books to her, one night, back in their fourth year. A storm had upset her, driven her out of her bed and down to the common room. Theodore had been sat in an armchair, reading _Frankenstein_. He told her his mother used to read him muggle literature. Daphen had enjoyed it so much, she had sought books out herself.

"Shut up," Daphne sighed. "I'm not in the mood for your poetic dribble tonight."

He smiled. "Then how about a walk?" Theodore offered. When Daphne shot him a weary look, he said, "I can see how uncomfortable you are, Daphne. At least humour me for a few minutes."

It was a tempting offer. Daphne was stood so close to the wall, she was surprised she hadn't merged with it. Plus, out of respect for her sister and Draco, she had gone along with the whole white theme. Which meant she blended perfectly with the wall. Stood next to Theodore, they were contrasts. He was still light, though. He was painfully bright in comparison to her.

But—

Daphne had missed him, too, so she followed him out.

v

It was hot and sticky outside.

Daphne knew Astoria would pick a summer wedding — since they were young, Astoria had always wanted her wedding surrounded by flowers and sun and the warmth of the evening air. Daphne had always wanted a winter wedding. It was a shame Daphne was still hopelessly alone and drinking herself into a stupor.

"You know you've never been able to handle your drink," Theodore commented.

Throwing back her fifth drink, Daphne bore her teeth at him. "I've been in France for four years," she countered, "what do you know about me anymore?"

He rolled his eyes and leaned against a small brick wall. Daphne watched as he set his glass of wine down, then stuffed his hands in his pockets and lifted his eyes to the stars. "I know your bedroom is still a rainbow," he listed vaguely, "I know your favourite food is vanilla ice-cream with chocolate sauce; I know you prefer rubies to sapphire's and I know you've always hated Pansy Parkinson," he sent her a quick smirk at her audible gasp, "_especially _when she ruined your favourite heels."

Daphned huffed indignantly. "That's trivial now," she said as a way of avoiding that he was right. "I haven't eaten ice-cream in forever and I don't wear jewelry any more unless the occasion calls for it."

"But your bedroom is still a rainbow and you still hate Parkinson," Theodore finished off for her.

She caught his eye and couldn't fight back the twitch of her lips. Theodore smiled widely, his face completely changing in the light of the moon — he looked relaxed, almost as if it hadn't been four years since he had seen her. She was absolutely taken by how composed he still was. What was he even _doing _nowadays?

Before she could ask, he turned to face her. "Will you go back? To France, I mean."

—_yes, yes, yes; at least there I'm somebody._"Not for a while," Daphne answered instead. The relief on Theodore's face worried her. "I have to stay for Astoria, no matter how tediously boring this entire arrangement is."

"Green never suited you," he quipped, knowing exactly what she was referring to. Daphne bristled at his comment, but was cut off from shouting at him by his step closer. "I'm not stupid, Daph. I see the way you still look at him — I see the longing, no matter how hard you attempt to hide it."

"Nott," Daphne ground out, her face heating up, "I dare you to carry on with this ridiculous conversation."

"Challenge accepted," Theodore said. He was closer than ever now. "You love him," he murmured with clarity, "but you hate that you love him. Hate that Astoria has what you wanted since you think it's your _right. _That because you loved him first, he's yours. Don't you, Daphne?"

Her blood in her ears, Daphne hardly had words. But she needn't bother, he was talking again. "You can't let go. You've always held a grudge against Astoria — she's everything you wish you was. She's beautiful and she's a source of warmth, but more importantly, she has Draco. You can't stand it, can you? Can't stand being bested by your own blood."

"_Shut up!_" Daphne screamed. Her heartbeat was manic and her eyes were stinging. Truth, all of it. Everything this man said, every word that spilled from his lovely mouth was real and true and _raw. _It hurt more than she wished to admit. Her entire reason for leaving for France was to escape it all. She didn't have to see Astoria and Draco — didn't have to see how happy they were with each other, whilst Daphne's heart sank deeper and deeper.

Her breath ragged, she took a step back, away from his burning words. Theodore knew he had hurt her. He didn't allow his own pain to show though, he just wanted Daphne to open her eyes and see that _—_

(_you aren't alone — I'm here, always_)

— he loved her, every goddamn bit of her.

"Why are you doing this?" she refused to meet his eyes again, but her words were steel.

"Don't you get it?" Theodore pushed. "You deserve more than this," he stepped forward again, relieved when she didn't move back, "you deserve someone who'll love you. Draco has never loved you, Daphne, why don't you understand that?" he hated what he was saying, hated seeing that look on her face. But it was about time Daphne stopped living in her own wonderland.

She was silent for quite some time after this. Her eyes never left the ground and her fingers clutched her wine glass tightly. Strands of golden hair fell across her face, obscuring the wobble of her lips; she was holding back tears that hadn't come since the war. She had washed them all away with the heat of someone else's bed and the burning taste of alcohol.

Now, however, they seemed to be shoving against her carefully crafted dam.

All because of _him._

"I know," Daphne said, quiet and almost hollow. "I know."

Theodore couldn't take it anymore. He reached out and placed his palm upon her cheek, lifting her face to meet his. "When I was fourteen, I found someone who made my existence a little bit more bearable. Despite how hard it rained, she was always sunshine and she was everything I wanted," he explained, "but she never realised how much she meant to me, and I thought I'd lost her."

"Theodore..."

"Wait, Daph," he cut across, smiling softly, "she never knew how fucking special she was — still doesn't, actually. But to me, she's the sun and the moon and the stars and every bloody sonnet in every goddamn poetry book. And I love her and her immature rainbow room and her irrational dislike for Parkinson. Merlin," he stopped, shaking his head and smirking, "I always _have _loved you."

In this moment, he looked every bit the fourteen year old boy she had bonded with all those years ago. His hazel eyes wide, his lips forming a small, sweet smile and his hair slightly messy from the light breeze. Theodore Nott, the boy who spoke with his eyes, had just told her he loved her. Daphne gulped. If it was possible, her heart had accelerated a tenfold in the last few minutes. Plus, his hand was still on her cheek.

Though, as if he had read her mind, his hand dropped and was placed back in his suit pocket.

Daphne turned away from him and looked up at the empty sky. A thousand stars, a pitch black night. Her sister's wedding. Four years in Paris and nothing to show for it. Daphne had never felt so alone, but right here, with Theodore, she felt a little better. His presence had always calmed her — he was her grip to life. He made her angry and happy; he made her sad and excited. He made her _somebody._

So didn't love him, not yet.

But she knew, with time, perhaps, she might be able to love him with a love unbound.

When she turned to face him again, Daphne smiled. "It's not going to be easy, y'know," she said.

Theodore chuckled. "I'm not asking for easy," he replied. "Merlin, that would be a miracle," he teased. When Daphne smacked him on the arm, he apologized, but his smiled dropped and he said seriously, "I just want to make you happy."

Exasperated — really, did this boy not understand 'the moment' — Daphne hissed, "Theodore, shut up and kiss me."

With one last grin, Theodore nodded and bent down, cupping her cheek with his hand and guiding her lips upwards. They met somewhere in the middle, his lips soft and demanding. Daphne melted right into him, finally able to know what it was like to be loved unconditionally. Finally equal with her sister, finally happy, Daphne allowed Theodore to purify the spite and the jealousy from her veins.

(_goodbye, mother; goodbye, the girl who wished for another life_)

v

Theodore had always been hers, right from the start.

_you're not alone — I'm here, always._


End file.
